Cherry Phosphate
by Schroe Dawson
Summary: Kid Blink wanted a drink too! A random little oneshot about Blink's thoughts during the toast to 'Our Man Denton'.


_Author's Note: A product of boredom and procrastination. This a one-shot of Kid Blink's point of view during the scene in Tibby's when the boys toast Denton, and Mush and Blink end up sharing a glass._

* * *

I ordered a drink. I know I asked for one. The service here is completely incompetent. Incompetent. Is that the right word? Maybe it's incontinent. I don't know. I just mean to say that the service is really, really bad. Granted, Denton is footing the bill-- but as a consumer, I'm indignant! Even if I'm not the one paying for lunch, I expect those bummers with the notepads and aprons to distribute our orders accurately. 

Racetrack's the one passing the drinks back to us kids in the back. He's doing that while Jack and David plan the rally. We're going to have a newsie rally, at Irving Hall. I guess that's exciting, but I can't think of that right now; my drink is missing! Racetrack just handed it off to someone else. It was a cherry phosphate. I never have enough cash to get one of those. Sometimes I order them anyway, and then I gotta bum a bit of cash off of Mush or Racetrack when we buy papes from Weasel the next day. Racetrack never gives me cash. Mush always will. For some reason, I still ask Racetrack to lend me dough before I resort to asking Mush.

I have a reputation for spending money faster than I can make it. What can I say? I like gracious living. I guess I shouldn't have chosen to be a newsie. Newsies don't live graciously. We live crudely. We live day to day, penny by fucking penny. But I don't suppose I really chose to be to a newsie. Being a newsie chose me.

My point is, I'm fucking thirsty. Not just thirsty. _Fucking_ thirsty. Mush always tells me I have a dirty mouth. He says that if I had a mother, she'd be perfectly horrified by my language. I think I'm entitled to swear; I was looking forward to that cherry phosphate, if anyone cares. Which obviously no one does, because no one's even noticed my lack of beverage.

Maybe I'm overreacting. Mush says I overreact to things. I don't think I do. I don't think I overreact. I react an acceptable amount. I'm just... emphatic. Dave taught me that word. That boy knows his words. Emphatic means you get really into your opinions, or you talk passionately, with lots of hand gestures and emphasis. Yeah, I'm emphatic. Mush is too much of a pushover, if you ask me; he's not emphatic at all. Maybe that's why we're best friends. He doesn't care when I insist that I get my way. He could stand to be a little tougher. He's too sensitive; people can push him around and walk all over him. I know I do.

"...Send a message to the big boys." David is saying excitedly. His voice somehow wrangled my attention. The rally. The rally at Irving Hall, for the strike. Brilliant idea, boys. Too bad I can't drink it.

"I'll give 'em a message." Racetrack mutters, making the others laugh. I don't laugh. I'm too annoyed at him for ignoring me and passing my drink off to some undeserving kid. I mean, come on, my hand was right there, and he completely ignored me. I bet Snipeshooter weaseled in and snitched it. Or else Racetrack handed it off to someone else on purpose. Wouldn't be surprised.

"There's a lot of us, and we ain't going away." Jack says now, playing the very serious strike leader. "We'll fight until damn Doomsday if it means we get a fair shake."

Damn Doomsday. So I'm not the only one with a mouth that ought to be washed out. Hear that, Mush? Most newsies could probably stand to edit some four-letter words out of their conversations. Hell if I care. Right now, I'm focused on two things: the dead thirst, and the damn strike. Thing about the strike is, we ain't making nothing anymore. Before we were only making four cents for every ten papes we sold, but it was better than nothing. So I'll be glad when this is behind us. When the strike's over, I'll blow ever nickel on cherry phosphates.

Mush is watching me. He notices my mood. I had mentioned the phosphate earlier, and he knew I was waiting for it. He gave me a questioning look. I shrugged and shook my head, no I was never served. With all of us rowdy newsies jammed into one restaurant, it's not all that surprising. Mush glances down at his own glass. He offers it to me as subtly as he could, so that everyone assumes we were being goody little attentive newsboys. We really should be paying attention to Jack and Davey and Denton, figuring out the rally. They were no doubt imparting strikers' wisdom to all of us.

I grin at Mush. This is the perfect example of a true friend. Another kid willing to give up half his drink for you, that's a real chum. I reach out and Mush starts to pass me the cup. This is why best friends, I remember.

"Hey guys. To our man Denton."

We exchange another glance. Unable to hold in our broad smiles, we raise the glass into the air, together.

"Our man Denton!"


End file.
